The shortness of life, the length of hours.
Everything gone before is a flashing moment.
Everything today is idle and still.
But as today turns to yesterday. Its again a flash, and a spinster of second.
Everything tomorrow is the unpredictable future.
We wait and plan. We make our hours seem like years. We watch needles of a clock now and again. Watching time hanging in the air.
Our minutes turn to years as the ticking of the clock penetrates our ears.
One day, which maybe our last.
We will see life as our past.
A series of blurred old images will run through our mind.
It will consist of all our memory,
and time is what then we will envy.
As it passes without a trace, in finess and grace
We tried and tried to prison it in numbers.
We tried to stop it with curtians and blinds.
But time had wisdom and power undefined.
It was long and listless. £t turned short as bliss.
but as it took us to its end. All we endured was now a memory.
I lay on my bed. The clock still exists. The digits change, the needles move. But now I know the wisdom of time. My yesterdays are a flash of memory. My future remains in non-existence.
My now maybe where I breathe my last. Without count and wait.
Tall and graceful, he walked into my life. It was odd to watch him from the corner of my eyes. Sitting their. Silent and still. Under the humid heavy air. I watched him as he looked into nothing. His sight travelled far into the universe. His posture strong, his hands resting on top of each other. Sculpted out of the finest clay. Uniqueness set in every particle. Elegant and desireable were all his ways.
He sat there with two others and another and again another.
The world moved in a lapse of time yet he stays in the present or far behind.
Its peaceful to watch the lazy, liesurely gesturs of remarkable youth in a space so nimble and a time agile.
His body Lithe as he rises off a seat which compromises. A glimpse, and my heart cheers. A step he takes and now hes closer. My body shudders. My heartbeat fastens. My hands shiver. and i have to lie. Its the cold that does so to me and not your eyes.
I look at the ground to hide my fright. Im unable to raise my head. i feel as though if I do I might embarrass myself. But I cant resist. Its way too difficult. My eyes wish to see him just one more time.
Reluctantly and sluggishly i raise my eyes. In hope to see a dazzling sight.
But thats it. that is all i deserved
the space is a rush of bodies with no souls. overwhelmed with noise.
Since peace has left it hollow with void.
She walked in an empty room, wrapped in blanket, and nothing else. She walked in slowly. Close to her bed.
She was looking for pleasure in pain. because the opium to mental stress is physical pain.
But no one was their not a soul to hear.
She climbed on to the bed. and lay down. Immersed in thought. She was blind in mind. she looked at the cealing. With its beautiful plains. Levels of plains. One below the other.
But that wasnt what she saw.
She visualised her life. Had a few flashbacks. All the visuals diffused in the air between her and the roof .
Hours passed as seconds, and second like hours. time was immeasurable. Time became infinity. Her needs grew stronger, her wants didnt matter. Their was nothing she wanted anymore but she had a need. A need of pain. a need of cure.
The room went dark. and a creek of the door shook her out of her state. The stillness broke as the door started to move. A blurred figure of handsome walked in. Or she thought. As her thoughts were dreams and reality a mirage
The door closed shut and all she could see was the blurred light of her eyes in the pitch black dark. It had no shape. It only had sounds.
The sound of a belt being un buckled. And slipped out of the pants.
And then their was pain. And exactly what she needed. Not sound except the belt whipping down her back. She had waited for that pain in patience beyond compare. She could feel herself getting warm in the cold wet air. Each second brought a blow. Which she wished would never stop.
Because now was the pleasure that every soul fears, she felt her blood seaping through her skin. It came to the surface blushing her body and relaxing her mind.
Sitting in my room I am alone. I think of death and I am alone. I breathe in air and I am alone. I sit in a crowd yet alone. I talk to stranger too familiar. I get advise from people who dont know me. Be responsive and You will not blast. Be easy and you will be happy. I tried all of this yet Im alone. I have freinds and they leave me alone. I have prents they dont know I am alone. alone in itslef is so alone. Every breath is a moment alone. Every night the moons alone. it exist alone. It dies alone. Dragon dragon the one who does not talk. A dragon Ill be to be alone. It turn out that existence is a word alone. And we in itself is a ‘w’alone and an ‘e’ alone. Every letter has distance. Every letter is alone. A passage has meaning yet every word is alone. In this world of existence your body is alone and in the mind of your body you are alone. And that is exactly why you and I are meant to be so alone. I live alone. I will die alone. My heart is a well filled with people. The plural in itslef is alone. My brain is a mine of thought so jummbled. Each thought in itself is so alone. Here in this room I have lots of things. Each thing is to exist alone. Time is a plural of seconds alone. but what about alone? Alone is the one who is never alone.
She sat alone, in a corner, in a big house. The house was big, because she felt small. As years had passed, she realized: her muscles weak, her bones brittle, her heart beating slower by the day, and silent by night. But there were times, when her heart beat fast, at speed of light. Those times did come, but as rare and as frequent as the full moon. And here she is, in her lows right now. Sitting peacefully at sight, but a grenade inside. Still as a wall. sitting on its axis, motionless. The only sound around her came from the powerful inhales and exhales of her breath. It takes an effort to breathe. ‘I need power I don’t have. I am so alone.’
And there she sits. with legs crossed at the knees. Her numb white feet in anguish and pain, not willing to touch the ground beneath…
“The ancient Taoist scholar Laotse espoused that the true beauty of a room lay in the vacant space enclosed by the roof and walls, rather than the roof and walls themselves. He aspired to an aesthetic ideal of emptiness. True beauty could only be realized in the material world, he held, when it was stripped bare, with only the merest suggestion of color, pattern or texture. The mind, the imagination of the beholder should be allowed to complete the picture in the mood of the moment.” The Japanese House by Noboru Murata and Alexandra Black.
The theory of Japanese architecture and interiors revolve around the idea of what modern day architects would call the minimalist approach. Spaces are visually empty, yet have the atmosphere of wholeness, tranquility and spirituality. The structures made out of wood, bamboo and paper, provide a warm and cozy space. The walls are made, of sliding doors which open into Zen garden, transferring life from nature into the man-made space. Everything within a Japanese home is functional and purposeful.
The beds are not solid and elevated, but the contrary, Futons are the traditional Japanese bedding comprising of a padded mattress, called a shikibuton, a quilt, called a kakebuton, and a pillow filled with beans, called a makura, all of which is pulled out at night to sleep, Folded and stored in sliding door cupboards by day. Not only out of sight, but out of mind. There are small seasonal decorations used as a part of completing the minimalist aesthetic involved in Japanese design, the scroll in the living room alcove changed as the seasons change, the flower arrangement at the entrance marking the arrival spring, etc.
Futon
Futon
Material and Elements
A few of the materials used to build these spacious, beautiful and peaceful homes are comprised of:
Tatami, the floor covering which is weaved from straw forming matting. It is the key element of any Japanese house because of which the space is called home. The straw used to make Tatami is well suited to the climate of the region as it allows air circulation, and is very soft, warm and welcoming.
Tatami
Bamboo, is a common feature of the Japanese house, it is used to make the fence around the house thus being the boundary and the connection between the outside and the inside. Thinner form of bamboo, the reed stick is used to make blind, the Japanese form of curtains. The material doesn’t only hold crafts value but also aesthetic value as it gives a smooth, glossy, satisfying surface and also stimulates the artistry of nature.
Reed Sticks Blinds
Reed Stick Blinds
Paper, In the Japanese home, the play shadow, adds to its aesthetics as it lacks ornaments, making the shadows smooth and contrasting since it grasps walls in its cast.
Sliding Walls
Wood is perhaps the most precious and a beautiful material to use in building homes and for Japanese houses it is the pride of the home. Pine, Cedar and Cyprus trees are used as the raw wood, which is processed into elegant structures put together to construct fine building.
Floor Sitting
Stone is a silent part of the interior yet an equally important visual element in the exterior. Stones are used for the landscaping of gardens, for building pathways and in a bigger size could be a centerpiece for a fountain in the garden. When polishes stone has poetic qualities, since it shines in the light and reflect the dim lanterns at night.
Art is a word. It is just a three letter word, a sound one makes from their mouths, like every other sound we produce to talk, express or impress. But it is the meanings, the romanticism, the clichés and all the other vast meaning we attach to this word which need to be contemplated. We describe things we don’t understand as art. We label thing we refuse to understand as art. And once we have done that, we attach the idea of madness with the one who forms the art. The artist is widely known as mad and eccentric.
Another way we see art or artist is a person who creates visuals out of paint and brush and other tools. The instruments and gizmos used to create what the eye can see and the mind can name, tools which are used with sheer level of skill to create visuals, so pure and perfect to be named with one’s mind and held with one’s eyes.
But little do we understand that art in itself is a word so fluid, it can be used to appreciate anything and every skill which exists on planet earth and beyond its horizons. But there’s a condition, the idea and skill behind anything called art should be nothing less than the excellent and exceptional.
One of my favorite quotes, from a brilliant movie describes this, and i.e. the idea: “Not everyone can become a great artist, but great art can come from anywhere.” And that is exactly what distinguishes the ordinary from the extraordinary. The ability to take a leap of faith, to think the new, to understand the existing, and to observe the ordinary from a phenomenal, unprecedented angle leading to an excellence of consciousness and instinct together working on producing the “new”.
ART: The Essence of Life
Art come in all forms, from the mother excellent at cooking breakfast pancakes to the painter, who is a master at using his brush, and the writer who uses his pen in the ambition to make a change. The tool, the idea, the conscious, the subconscious, the knowledge and the ignorance; all of it together becomes the perfect pen. And a pen is the agent for recording the essence of life. And that record is ART.
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